History of Sorts

The day I die .There is no tunnel of light, no judgment. Just the thud of my soul dropping into a smoky backstage lounge that reeked of leather, stale whiskey, and guitar strings.

A man in mirrored sunglasses and bat wings turned around and grinned.
“Welcome to the Afterlife, mate,” said Ozzy Osbourne. Beside him, two legends nodded – Freddie Mercury, flamboyant as ever, and David Bowie, ethereal, timeless.

“We’re putting the band back together,” Freddie purred, “and you’re just in time for rehearsal.”

Behind them, a velvet curtain pulled back, revealing a cosmic jam session in progress.

Lead vocals: Ozzy, Freddie, and Bowie – a holy trinity of stage gods.
Backing vocals: Tina Turner, George Michael, and Prince – harmonizing like galaxies colliding.

Lead guitars: Three gods of the fretboard – Jimi Hendrix, purple haze swirling around his hands; Stevie Ray Vaughan, blues fire crackling from his amp; and Eddie Van Halen, fingers flying faster than light.

Then came Gary Moore on solo guitar – every bend of his string echoing like heartbreak across eternity.

Seated on a wooden stool in the corner, Kurt Cobain picked at an acoustic guitar, voice ghostly and raw, whispering truths only the dead dare sing.

On bass, the thunder gods: Lemmy pounding sonic rumble and Phil Lynott, cool as shadows in moonlight.

And the drums… oh, the drums. A four-headed beast:

Ginger Baker with tribal fury,

Charlie Watts with jazz elegance,

John Bonham shaking the sky,

Neil Peart, writing cosmic verses with every cymbal crash.

I was the roadie. The fan. The witness. I tuned guitars made of stardust. Coiled mic cables that hummed with spirit. Every night, we played a show to a crowd of souls who needed healing.

This was no Hell. No Heaven either.

This was the eternal encore.